


The Share

by rosydawn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Sexual Slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-11-05
Updated: 2011-11-05
Packaged: 2017-10-25 17:24:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/272865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosydawn/pseuds/rosydawn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was from a middle-grade establishment that John Watson went in to purchase a house servant and came out with a bed slave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Share

The Steps were not so wide - extending across perhaps 400 feet - but it impressed in length. Simply speaking, it went on forever. Starting from the coast it rose and rose, reaching the crest of the Major Plateau. Every so often the incline stopped, mini plateaus that spanned variable lengths. On these tables were where the people of The Steps lived, each side contained hovels and shanties adjoining larger domiciles.

Men and women were born and died along The Steps, begging or trading.

Between housing structures were splendid buildings, medium-sized structures, tents or sometimes just large tables; this was where people from all over the kingdom came to buy and sell. One could find pretty much anything here, whatever your price range, from the poorest of the poor to the noble rich whose acquisition servants did the actual negotiating and purchasing.

It was from a middle-grade establishment that John Watson went in to purchase a house servant and came out with a bed slave.

The merchant watched them go with an odd expression crossing his withered features. Gladness, at getting the curse out of his stock. Innate dejection, unstoppable in his trade, for allowing such a gorgeous and pricey commodity to leave his wares for so little.

The day was oppressively hot, the crowds thronged tight and impenetrable around them, but even the commotion and stench of the butchers area couldn’t stymie the wide grin on John’s face and the hop in his step. When someone blundered into and boldly groped his slave it was almost happily that John shoved the man off.

Soon, however, it got to be too much and John was fearful of even the smallest distance put between them.

“Stay close,” he said and moved behind so that instead of owner pulling owned by the thick leash connected to the thicker collar now John pushed forward at the small of the youth's back.

And it was close. Achingly close. _Right there_. He felt the pale skin’s heat under the thin, white silken fabric in which it was wrapped. Desire roiled his gut. He couldn’t help but palm the curves, tantalizingly abundant, that the slim frame couldn’t belie.

This is mine.

_Fuck._

And like that, a giddy rush of carnal anticipation hit. John began sweating more than the heat and press of bodies excused, his pulse like a racehorse. Lest the temptation to take him into one of the open stalls became too great he tried not look directly at the young thing.

_John, stop it. No time to think about that now. Get safe. Get home_

The reprimand worked.

He sighed. Now was the time to find his way back to the transportation area and he was hopelessly lost. He couldn’t figure out where they were in relation to... well... anything.

His slave’s beautiful height and apparent knowledge of the area helped matters a _great_ deal. In a light, rich purr that sent waves of lust crashing over John once more, he imperiously called out directions (“Right here. - No. Wrong. - This way”) and basically lead them onward.

 

The transportation area, always a source of dismay and confusion for John the scant times he had been here before, was worse now he had a human servant to move through. A new thing entirely.

The din rose exponentially as they got closer. Massive cargo holds heaped with everything from furniture to exotic and domesticated animals stood end to end waiting to be hooked to their respective trains. Strident voices directed traders hither and thither where to take their hauls. John looked about and listened for anything about slaves. He glanced up at his own who, momentarily unhelpful, stood stock-still and somber.

John started to wonder if things had changed, if it was okay to take one’s slave on the passenger train. He was just about to turn that way when abruptly he heard it. An almost sonic boom carried through the clamor.

“Human chattel All human chattel and slaves transported here. All slaves here!”

“Okay, right. Here we go then.” John smiled and looked up. A sullen cast came over the lovely features. More importantly though the slave didn’t move.

“I know. Train rides are never fun, but it won’t be so bad. I promise,” John said reassuringly.

The man's eyes, and John still hadn’t figured out their exact color, only narrowed in his doe-like face. But he followed.

An amiable officer with a tablet and maps and charts and whatnot helped John determine the specific car for slaves that was meant for his train. In the distance he could see it was smaller and in poorer shape than most others. Sighing, he turned around. “Well, I’m sure it’s not how you’re used to travelling but it’s just a day to port.” John was still lost in hoping there was an organized tagging system that would allow for easy retrieval of his slave at journey's end when the three steps he took ended and the leash in his sweaty hand pulled taut.

“A day and a half,” came the critical voice.

Impetuously tall and stubbornly in place his slave stood and just, just _glowered_ at John. Like the miscalculation was oh so important.

John stared right back for a second, incredulous.

“Right. Er, right, day and a half. Come now.”

Rich, night-inked curls bounced about as the slave gave a lofty shake of his head, which was held about as high as one could get it without actually staring at the sky.

“What?”

And it was anger, no mistake, that slashed through John's veins.

For one thing, the bed slut looked utterly ridiculous. Maintaining carriage and manners like that of a highborn, like John’s better. Like _everyone’s_ better. But about as obvious in appearance and dress like the fuck slut he was - the gaudy four-inch collar alone screamed _shag me until I cry, until I beg for it._

But okay. Fine. That, that was no problem. John could, and would, take care of.

More frustrating and more curious was where in the name of the Gods was this change of attitude coming from. He’d been so helpful finding their way here. He departed the skin shop if not eagerly then certainly without fail, and with an almost placid happiness. One would have thought he had been a house servant, so intelligent, so accommodating. The perfect slave. And now? He couldn't know that John was a meager farmer but surely he was smart enough to comprehend he wasn’t of a high station. That there was no way he had the means for a carriage or a private car.

“Look, I don’t know if disobeying orders is something that got you rewards from your last owner but I just don’t play those games. This is the only means of transportation I can afford here?”

The young man rolled his eyes at him. Actually _rolled them_. “Yes, John, I know---”

John gave a sharp whipsnap of the leash.

It hadn’t been that the slave used his name (How _did_ he know his name? Oh, _right_. John had used it with the merchant.) It wasn't that he rolled his eyes - it _really_ wasn’t John assured himself over and over. He really hadn't meant his temper to flare over something so small. It was simply that they _needed_ to get going, time was counting down, and he had lost all patience at last.

And to be honest it wasn't even that hard. 

But then there was the _show_ of it all. The sight of such a toy jolting forward and stumbling, struggling with his slender limbs to catch himself on the ground before very nearly falling over, the choking noises he made, still supine, coughing and gagging at the strain done to his poor throat, brought a unexpected thrill John couldn't smother. Worse yet were the crueler thoughts rolling in his mind to fall fast upon one another. An ache, sudden and damning and _molten hot _to fuck this slut stupid, until he passed out of consciousness and in front of all to see stook John with a violence so fierce it _hurt_ and he knew himself never in his entire life to have felt so alive. __

But he then noted that still the slave's hands were clutching futile at his neck and collar and he looked so _young_ , sinfully so to be honest, which heightened the vulnerability and demonstrated to John that it was inexperience with pain and softness of practicing life which made the punishment all the more difficult for the boy to take. Just as quickly as they flashed with arousal all the wicked thoughts dissipated and left John simply feeling stricken.

A young gallant with a leashed slave of his own winked at him as they walked and that didn’t help matters. At all.

 

The haggard looking ticket-agent raised his head from his money fold as they approached.

“Yes, hello. This is the car for slaves going to Dulce Port?”

The man nodded.

“Okay, right. Is it the only one?” John looked askance at the filth and stains without and though he could only see partly inside he could tell it was packed.

“The only one,” the man said.

“Well, is there another car for house slaves or bed workers? You don’t actually throw them all together do you?”

“Fuck toys, house hands, field hands, hard laborers, they all go here. It’s the only car that goes to Dulce now or later.” At no point in time, from the moment they walked up, had the man stopped staring at John's slave. “But don’t worry, sir, there’s an overseer on board that takes care of any of _that_ kind of mischief.”

And then he made John an offer he absolutely couldn’t refuse.

His slave was no longer hanging back, but to the left he stood, right at the ramp leading into the car as the deal was made. His face was drawn tight, mouth flat as the bow of his lips would allow. John came up to help him find a place to sit.

Inside was teaming with life. If you could call it that.

All collars but a handful were thick and light brown. It meant almost everyone there was criminal turned slave. Haunted, callous faces scowled at John in the few that weren’t distracted enough to spare him a look at all. The vast majority were hungrily eyeing two house slaves, man and woman, identifiable by thin, pretty black collars. Easy to spot because the pair, siblings by their looks, were being practically mauled by two hulking men, their heads tilted back as their exposed necks were mouthed and bitten.

Worse still was the ogre in the back, sitting on a raised platform, the so-called supervisor. In one hand a musket. In the other a long whip. On his face was etched a sadistic, wolfish grin as he took in the proceedings.

He glanced up and over. Just a second. It was all it took to mark John’s slave. The smile left and in its place a wide-eyed stare of menacing hopefulness. His mouth quirked up with a cruel twist.

“Demons in hell,” John whispered.

“If you leave me here you will not see me again.”

The voice sounded calm and steady but for a slight tremor John wouldn't have caught but for its proximity, but it was the young man's gaze penetrating John right through to his core, a deep, desperate plea for him to comprehend the slave's meaning was what he truly heard. And John understood. No threat of escape, it was the surety that something untoward taking place over the long trek.

A day and a half.

Transfers often happened. Hooking and re-hooking of cars, new configurations that sometimes foreshadowed freight never making its destination. People had been known to loose luggage, expensive purchases, _slaves_. During stops that lasted over an hour it wasn’t uncommon for slaves to simply “run off”. No apologies made, no refund available except the insurance promised of the ticket price paid.

John looked down at the scrap of paper in his hand and felt its worthlessness. They would make a mint. John could have laughed at his naivete if he didn’t feel so utterly bitter.

“Or if you do there won’t be anything left worth having.”

By now more of the slaves had noticed them. Hard, ravenous eyes roamed up and down his slave’s body. One ugly brute gave a disgusting lick of his chops.

Those were the looks John had seen before.

Nearly seventeen years ago when he lived on his Uncle’s share, a woman from the village had poisoned her husband and children.

_'Accident'_ some said.

_'Doesn’t matter_ ' others replied.

_'The spirits are unhappy'_ everyone admitted.

A caravan of soldiers came through and the mayor summarily handed her over, an expedited but deemed fair solution to the problem, to right the injustice and equalize the Gods displeasure. John happened to be in the village when it came to pass. Never would he forget the predatory, expectant faces he saw that day. That day and now today..

_Oh, Gods, what have I done?_

He couldn't move. He could barely breathe. His mind’s eye played out horrific scenes as what would happen once the doors were closed and the journey began.

If the overseer didn’t take the risk of stealing and reselling a slave he’d take his ruthless enjoyment to see one torn apart. And even if he did mean to intervene once the desperate men got a hold of it, the slave's fragile body wouldn't last an hour.

He wrapped an arm around the slim waist of his possession.

He knew John’s name. Gods, what if he called out John’s name for help.

He clutched the nubile body all the tighter.

“Let’s go,” the slave whispered in his ear.

How could he do anything but follow?

**Author's Note:**

> Writing this for a prompt.


End file.
